Dispatch from Mayfair
Claridge’s, London
Stories from Kabul No. 1 - I’ve asked myself the question many times before, but there’s something about the black-and-white marble floors, the graceful staircase, and the crystal chandeliers in the lobby at Claridge’s that makes the question Why do you want to move to Afghanistan seem absurd, and finding a suitable and thoughtful answer even more pressing. The warm piano melodies drifting out of the room adjacent contrast sharply with the thoughts in my head, and as I glance around at the careful arrangements of magnolia branches and long stem red roses, I’m reminded just how much I enjoy rainy London days like this one, waiting on old friends for afternoon tea. The crisply dressed staff, dispensing advice and instruction sotto voce, lull me into a reverie – the world I am about to enter will be so different from this. London and New York, the two cities where I feel most at home, are a far cry from the dusty and dilapidated streets of Kabul. Could there be a sharper contrast? Samuel Johnson said, “When a man is tired of London he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford.” Why should I leave this shimmering city for a place that has been called “the graveyard of empires”?
There are more specific queries, too, some of which I have asked myself, others which have been asked repeatedly of me, and few of which I have concrete answers for. What kind of clothing will you wear to work? What will you be doing on a day-to-day basis? Where will you live? Aren’t you afraid to go to Taliban country as a woman? Will you be working on the Farkhunda case? Isn’t ISIS making gains in Afghanistan? What if you get kidnapped? Didn’t the State Department just release an emergency warning about traveling to that area? Aren’t Westerners being killed left and right? Don’t you read the news? Dizzying.
I will wear tunics over my dress trousers — meant to hide the fact that my legs are connected to my body — and a scarf tied loosely around my head when on the street as a sign of respect. The day-to-day will be that of a commercial lawyer in a war-torn capital, something I cannot fully imagine nor helpfully describe as a young attorney of the New York Bar. I know that I won’t be ferreting out members of the Taliban, working on controversial human rights cases, or prosecuting Farkhunda’s murderers (though I do care deeply about the plight of women in Afghanistan).
Rather, my work will be about business in the country, about negotiating contracts and helping interested parties function in a haphazard and unpredictable environment. As partners at my firm say, “For many Afghan businesses, the contract is merely something they were told they had to sign in order to get paid.” There is no understanding of promise, “a manifestation of intention to act or refrain from acting so made as to justify a promisee in understanding that a commitment has been made,” and subsequently nor of contract, “a promise or set of promises for the breach of which the law gives a remedy, or the performance of which the law in some way recognizes as a duty.” Contracts 101 is still seared into my memory. These concepts and others like them, it seems, are the building blocks for a functioning system of law and order.
Of course I am worried about the Taliban, about the gains ISIS has made in the past few months, and about the recent targeting of Westerners in Kabul, but even the fear is theoretical; I can only project what I will feel when sheer luck and good sense are the only things between the intentions of terrorists and myself. Time and experience will inform how much I can handle and how well I will be able to function as a lawyer in a deeply troubled country.
Over Cornish Earl Grey and scones, and ensconced in the art deco surroundings, I tell my friend that, as with most things, my interest in Afghanistan began long ago with books. “Of course,” she says, “Who hasn’t read some version of Livres des merveilles du monde.” Quite so. It was Marco Polo who first tantalized the West with glimpses of the deserts of Persia and the mysteries of the Hindu Kush, and many – including Dalrymple, a favorite author of mine – have traced his path from Venice to present day Beijing. Later, as a student of political philosophy and international relations, the Middle East and South and Central Asia were natural lodestones. Where better to look than to the hot zones of the east when parsing U.S. foreign policy, transnational law, and humanitarian intervention? Where better to look at the intersection of law and religion than to the birthplace of Christianity, now a region torn apart by warring factions, many in thrall to different interpretations of Islam?
“Do you think I’m completely crazy?” I ask as I bite into a tea sandwich. Perception has mattered to me more than usual in this. “Not at all,” she said, “I’m quite jealous.” In grad school, it was she who took the extra class on Islam while I was busy tinkering with Foucault. “I’m not a war junkie or anything, and it’s not like I believe in government projects like the Human Terrain System.” She smiles and reassures me, “I know that. You’re a lawyer with a profound interest in culture and people, and this is the next logical step.” I file that one away for later use.
After the interviews were over and the firm had done their best to assuage my fears and address my concerns, it took me nearly a month and many, many conversations before I was prepared to accept their offer. My pro/con list slanted heavily toward staying in New York, and the list of friends and colleagues who encouraged me to take the job and move to Kabul was far shorter than the list of people who urged me not to go. But this job, even with the lifestyle change it necessitates and the risk it entails, fits well within my matrix of ideas and values, goals and dreams. There were many coincidences, too, that seemed to push me forward. Like the fact that a good friend works for my boss’s sister and recommended his work and his firm highly, that there is a classical liberal think tank in Kabul where I can collaborate with like-minded people, that I met a Juilliard concert pianist at the New York Athletic Club in Manhattan who put me in touch with the head of the Afghanistan National Institute of Music where I plan to volunteer, and so on and so forth. In characteristic fashion, I created a spreadsheet with my new contacts in Kabul, and was happy to discover that I’ve already spoken to nearly fifty interesting, enthusiastic people who live and work in the city that will be my new home for the next year.
At first glance, I too find it difficult to square my interest and willingness to live in one of the poorest and most dangerous places on earth with my love of high culture, city life, and beautiful things. But I’m not moving to Afghanistan to practice law full stop; this is not just “relocating for a job.” As one friend said, “What you’re doing is huge.” I’m not sure exactly how she meant it, but if I take the larger, fuller view, my hope is that my time in Kabul will change me, you know, deep down in the far reaches of the soul, and that I’ll learn immensely from the experience. To practice law deeply immersed in a place like Afghanistan is what I had naively and ambitiously hoped for as I finished law school. So in a sense I can answer the question Why do you want to move to Afghanistan by explaining that I'm an adventurer, a person in constant pursuit of learning, always seeking new and different experiences. I’m a bit of a dreamer, too, and hope that all of this culminates into something beautiful and, dare I say, meaningful. I think, to varying degrees, it’s who we all are.
It is entirely possible that I won’t be able to handle Afghanistan, and will be back in London eating vanilla mille-feuille and chocolate cake in bed before I have time to write another post. I hope that’s not the case. I hope the next thing you read here is an article about the difficulties and joys of expat life in Kabul.
